


A Best Friend Is A Four Leaf Clover

by delilahbelle



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4584870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delilahbelle/pseuds/delilahbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A best friend is like a four leaf clover, hard to find and lucky to have. - Anonymous<br/>The dead are good at haunting soldiers in a war. Steve needs something good to hold on to. A moment in the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Best Friend Is A Four Leaf Clover

The night is cool and damp. Steve is grateful for the supersoldier serum for the first time in weeks—once upon a time, such a weather would have made him sick easily. But he's been out here in the coming winter for hours, and he's still fine, still warm enough in his suit, with the flames flickering low in the center of their camp. It makes for a cozy scene, the seven of them circling the fire, eating flavorless rations and trying to make light of the bombing two days ago. None of them died, but they couldn't say the same for the people of the town. It's late, and they should sleep, but none of them will rest. Steve doesn't know what his team will think of when they close their eyes, but he knows he will dream of a little boy's severed arm and crushed skull. He never remembers the faces of the people he saves, but the ones he can't—he remembers every single one of them. He won't close his eyes tonight, or tomorrow night if he can help it, or the night after. He'll stay awake as long as he can. If he takes first shift, he can just not wake them.

But Morita and Jones offer to take first watch, as they're mostly awake, and Steve wants to argue but Bucky shoots him a glare, like he knows what Steve's planning. He probably does, and Steve knows better than to think it's a fight he will win. If Bucky says his plan out loud, the rest of the team will argue with him, and there is no denying they are haunted too. It would feel like a betrayal to them, or a statement about their strength. So Steve remains silent, takes a last drink of water. They clear up and clean up, double checking that they have enough wood to last the night. There are murmurs of goodnight and sleep well and where's my gun. Then silence. Steve curls up, facing away from the others, and keeps his eyes wide open. The scenery is wonderful. He commits it all to memory—the stars twinkling in the dark sky, the full moon tossing shadows on the molting trees. It's a slice of heaven in the middle of the war, a place not yet touched by the bombs or deaths that weigh on the woods just five miles south.

There's a rustle behind him, but he knows it's just Bucky. “You weren't thinking of letting us all sleep all night, were you?”

Steve rolls over onto his back and looks up instead of at Bucky's face. They both know what the answer will be. They both know what Bucky's response will be. Steve waits for that knowledge to sink in to both of them then says, “He couldn't have been ten.”

“Seven, probably.” Bucky stretches out onto his side against Steve. “It's a war, Stevie. What did you expect?”

Steve thinks of his mother's tales about his father's death—censored carefully, as if he didn't know what mustard gas was, as if he didn't know that soldiers were expendable enough. “I expected to be able to do more.” Little Steve Rogers back home could do nothing but dream and draw and cough, but Captain America could slam enemy heads together and give speeches people actually listened to. Once, he might have thought that would be enough. The realities of war cannot be taught in a schoolroom or in newspapers or essays or interviews. The entire experience is one you'll never understand until you've lived it and one you'll never forget once you have.

“We saved a few dozen lives,” Bucky says.

“We lost more.”

“You can't think like that.”

Steve throws him a look. They've all been thinking it—he'd bet on it. A few dozen people, maybe a hundred or so, mostly children, pulled out in time or as the attack began didn't negate that they were mostly orphans now. Some of the elderly had stayed behind deliberately, saying they lived long enough lives and to save someone else. Some of the families were stubborn, saying there was no threat to them, as it wasn't a big enough town. Most of the adults stayed to fight, not willing to give up so easily.

Bucky presses his balled up hand into Steve's shoulder. “Try to sleep, will you?”

“Why? I'll dream of death.”

“Dream of Brooklyn instead. Go to sleep thinking of it. It might help.”

“Think about what? My mother coughing up blood? Being beaten up in alleys?”

“Your own fault,” Bucky says automatically. “Think of us scamming those jerks from Manhattan outta a hundred dollars during that pool game. They didn't think a little guy like you could beat them.”

“I got a broken nose for that. And both our mothers yelled at us together.”

“And we ate like kings for a week.”

Steve cracks a smile. He'd saved most of the money for his mother's birthday to buy her salmon and a nice cake. They hadn't eaten like kings on fifty dollars for more than a day or two for that, but it was worth it to see her face. He couldn't do very many nice things for her, so he took them where he could. They usually got him yelled at in a panicked voice. “Steven Grant Rogers, what you were thinking, walking two miles for that? Your lungs could have collapsed. I would rather my son live than try to complete chores!” But he survived. And made sure she didn't have do anything when she came back from work. He took care of dinner too. When he could. 

But the thoughts of his mother don't help at all. Instead of thinking about bomb victims, he thinks of his mother's final days, her frailness comparable to his. He thinks of her already pale skin becoming translucent, her exhaustion, how she couldn't get out of bed and to the bathroom without passing out. He hadn't been big enough to pick her up and carry her back to bed—sometimes Bucky did, sometimes Steve waited with a glass of water for her to come to and helped her back to bed. She knew she couldn't put much weight on Steve, but he tried to take all he could.

“Hey.” Bucky punches his shoulder gently. Or maybe it feels gentle because Bucky is unadulterated human. “Don't. Think of that time your mom took us to the circus.”

“I threw up my cotton candy.” Karma, he guesses, because he wasn't supposed to have it with his diabetes anyway, but it looked so good.

“On me,” Bucky says with a playful scowl.

Steve grins.

“There you go.” Bucky ruffles his hair and begins to move away. Steve grabs his wrist and shakes his head when Bucky looks back at him. 

“Stay, please,” Steve says. He thinks of their little apartment in a rundown old building, all creaky stairs and boarded up walls. When he was sick, Bucky would curl up against him and let Steve bury his head in his shoulder. Bucky wasn't any softer or harder than the bed or the pillow, but he was always warm, always willing to cuddle. Bucky understands this immediately, and he retakes a position beside Steve.

“Since I'm bigger than you now, can I be big spoon?” Steve asks. He's always wanted to be big spoon, but he couldn't curl himself around Bucky and still be comfortable.

Bucky responds by jerking Steve into his little spoon position with a grin. “No way, Stevie. I always get to be big spoon.” Steve acquiesces and burrows his head against Bucky. He feels fingertips in his hair a moment later. Briefly, he wonders what it looks like to their team. He can't bring himself to care. He wraps his arm around Bucky and entangles their legs. Bucky murmurs a goodnight and Steve closes his eyes and tries to think of warmer places and better times.

He can't, but he has Bucky beside him, and that's enough.


End file.
